Souvenirs of Childhood
by PhoenixPhoether
Summary: There is a fine line between love and hate. Sometimes, the need to feel crosses that line.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Domestic violence; some swearing; reference to sex (nothing graphic/descriptive); doesn't end in H/D.**

**Note: This is written in second person present tense. I was experimenting with styles, and that one fit the story quite well.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: So, this is far angsty-er than my previous fics, though (as always) it has a happy ending (more or less). I love H/D as much as the next person, but I have a horrible feeling this is a bit more likely. The title is a beautiful piano piece by Modest Mussorgsky (though this isn't a songfic). The story is dedicated to R and L, who both got out, and S, who didn't.**

* * *

It starts right after the war, the emptiness. Victory is hollow with so many gone who can't share it. You go through the motions, all the while pulling back little by little until nothing remains. You do what you're supposed to, keeping your head down and following the instructions you're given. You take up studying for the exams everyone missed, but it doesn't fill the widening canyon inside you. You can't remember what it's like to _feel_.

It is late in the afternoon, and you're gathering your things to leave when you see him. He isn't looking at the book that's open on the table in front of him; instead, he is staring out the imitation window that's been charmed to show the countryside. He runs a hand through his fine, blond hair. You recognise the look in his eyes because it is an exact match to the ache in your chest: haunted and lonely, but with a hint of grim determination.

Something—you're never sure later what it was—makes you walk over to speak to him. He looks at you suspiciously, and you realise it's because you've never done that before. He has initiated every single one of your interactions, and not one of them has ever been kind.

You need an excuse to be there. You remember that you still have his old wand, and you decide to offer it back even though you can see he has a new one.

"I don't need it," he reminds you, picking up the one he has and holding it in front of you. He offers what might be a half-hearted sneer and turns back to the book he wasn't reading.

In your desire to maintain this strange conversation, you mumble something about "sentimental value."

He glances up again and scoffs. "Probably means more to you now than it does to me."

"Maybe," you acknowledge.

"You can keep it, then," he tells you. He doesn't sound bitter anymore, only sad.

You're about to turn around when you blurt out, "Maybe I'll see you around, yeah?"

His eyes widen almost comically before they narrow and a frown creases his brow. "Whatever."

You finally turn away. Later, when you're with your friends again, you don't tell them that you spoke to him, but you're not sure why you want to keep it to yourself.

You do see him again. It becomes regular, this habit you have. You often find each other in the Ministry library, but you also meet in strange places—a Muggle park, a tiny bistro in Diagon Alley, assorted shops. Your stomach does odd things in his presence, which leaves you feeling confused and guilty.

The first time he kisses you, you're surprised. You're alone in the lift at the Ministry, making small conversation. He's somehow moved closer to you without your immediate notice. You finally discover he is in your personal space and you stop talking. He seems to take that as his cue, and he leans in. You resist a little at first, certain this is what you wanted but afraid he's going to use it to mock you later. When you stop analysing it, you kiss back, and you finally understand what you've been feeling. It's fantastic and a little rough and not nearly enough. But you're in a public lift, so it will have to wait.

It isn't a long wait. You want to have dinner, talk, hold hands—all the things you'd have done with Ginny. He says it might cause problems for the both of you. You think he's probably right, so you suggest your house and some takeaway. He says you should go to his instead. You agree because you desperately want more of whatever you shared in the lift at work.

You're surprised at where he lives; you thought he was still living in a wing of his parents' home. He says he does stay there sometimes, but he doesn't bring guests. He says he needs the space. You can understand that, and you tell him so.

You forget about the takeaway because you're suddenly too busy. He's not gentle, but it's all right because your whole life has been anything but gentle. You tell him it's your first time with a man; you leave out the part where it's your first time with anyone. He slows down a bit, taking time to show you. You only vaguely wonder how he knows what to do.

And then it's good. You didn't know sex felt like this. It's over sooner than you would have liked. It's a bit messy, too, which you weren't expecting. You ask for something to clean up with, and he scoffs, but he summons a towel and tosses it to you.

He doesn't ask you to stay the night. When you've reassembled yourself, he says he's tired and tells you to go home. You oblige, because this thing you have—whatever it is—is new. You don't know all the rules yet.

You meet him again and again, but you don't tell anyone. You remind yourself who he is, and you know what your friends will say. He is more than happy to keep quiet about it too.

You've been doing whatever this is—mostly sex—for a few weeks when it starts. It's subtle at first, just a jab or two about the casual Muggle clothes you still wear outside of training.

"I'd like to get you some new clothes," he tells you.

You think he's likely right about that. You haven't bought new clothes in ages, and you could use a few updates to your wardrobe. You shrug and go along with it. He says anyone who is with him should look smart. You wonder if that means he wants to be open about your not-a-relationship. He rolls his eyes at you and says no, he just likes his men to look good both in and out of bed. You flush at this, pleased that he likes the way you look at all.

He suggests you do something with your hair. You stare at him for a moment before explaining that it just grows that way. You try to tell him about the time your aunt made you get it cut, but he's not really listening. He says he knows someone who can fix it. You're wary, but you agree. It turns out to be true; you now have something that looks closer to messy-on-purpose than rolled-out-of-bed. You wonder if your magic will accidentally undo the style, but you decide it probably won't, since you like it.

He never wants you to stay the night at his; he won't even allow you to leave a toothbrush and a change of clothes. He says he wants to protect you from people finding out you're spending your time with a former Death Eater, and he reminds you that you're still keeping things quiet. He won't stay at yours, either. He tells you he finds your house creepy (not that it isn't) and says he's worried your friends will ask too many questions. You think it's probably true, and you wonder vaguely when you started to prefer keeping secrets from them.

Speaking of which, he doesn't like the company you keep. It starts with the people you see at the Ministry when training has you there.

"Goldstein is so forward with you. I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Anthony? We're just friends. He's seeing someone."

"I'd still rather you not spend so much time with him."

Then it's your friends. They're taking up too much of your time. This puzzles you, because you only see them once a week for drinks after studying or training. You remind him that he hasn't stopped seeing his friends, nor has he taken you round to see them because you are still keeping whatever-this-is a secret.

"Fine," he tells you. "Come over on Friday at seven."

"That's my usual night out with my friends."

He shrugs. "You're the one complaining that I never let you meet mine."

You make an excuse to Ron and Hermione—something about not feeling up to it—and skip your usual night out. You try to ignore the worried look they exchange. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because you're finally meeting _his_ friends. There are a few familiar faces among them; you're not really surprised to see Pansy there, for instance. She eyes you up and down, examining the elegantly tailored robes you're wearing.

"If I'd known he was going to turn out so fit, I might not have suggested handing him over," she says, smirking as she runs a hand down your arm. It makes you feel uncomfortable. She turns to him and continues, "Is this why you were so obsessed all the time?"

He answers, "Perhaps. I think I'm making up for all the things I wanted to do back then." He leers at you a bit, and it causes your skin to prickle unpleasantly.

"If you're ever up for sharing…" she murmurs, and you think you might be sick.

A bloke you don't know makes a drunken advance. You refuse, but you know what's coming. You don't miss the angry glare from the corner.

Later, he says it's your fault. You should've worn something else. You sent the wrong signals. You liked him better. You try to deny it, but he doesn't believe you. Your argument escalates, and it feels familiar to rage at each other like this. You say something about how if he's that worried, he should get new friends. You watch him as his features contort in fury.

It's the first time he hits you, even though it's not the first time he's broken your nose.

He apologises; there are unshed tears in his eyes. Neither of you knows the proper healing spells yet, so he takes you to St. Mungo's. After several hours, a mediwitch finally repairs the break. She asks what happened, and you tell her you tripped on your stairs. She isn't convinced, but she doesn't ask any more questions.

A week, later, the society page of the Daily Prophet carries a story that he's engaged to Astoria Greengrass. You slap the paper down in front of him at the breakfast table and ask what it means.

"I have to marry her and produce an heir." At the hurt in your eyes, he says, "It's a sham marriage. You're the only one I love. Besides, it's several years off."

"Is this why you didn't want me to meet your friends?"

He shrugs. "You've met them now, haven't you?"

You don't really have an answer for that, because it's true.

He has them over more often now, but he still refuses to see yours. He says they don't like him. You know he's right, so you don't press. Instead, you let him dress you up and show you off. You don't fight back when he humiliates you in front of his lot, because he says you need to learn proper manners. You put up with Pansy's mocking and leering and Pissed Bloke's groping, too.

You've learnt how to cover the bruises—and sometimes the hex-marks—with Glamours. Your friends notice that you seem a bit down, so you learn to cover that up, too—you stop seeing them. You tell them you're busy with training or that you need some space. You convince yourself that both are true.

That only works for so long, because at training, Ron's there, too, and he knows what's involved. He asks why you haven't been to see his family; he tells you they miss you. He doesn't add that they're worried about you, but he doesn't have to; you can see it on his face. You tell him you'll visit, even though you know you won't.

He knows it too. His eyes flash with anger and he says, "My mum lost one son. She doesn't need to lose another."

You feel guilty, partly because you know he's right and partly because you knew she thought of you that way but you never thought of her as a mother. You think you might have, if you had stayed with Ginny. You feel a pang of loss, and you turn away from Ron because you don't want him to know what you're thinking.

You keep the Glamours on all the time, even though you know that the older Aurors who are training you can see through them. Kingsley asks, but you evade and make excuses. He doesn't press, but he pointedly schedules you and the other trainees for a day-long session on recognising signs of domestic violence and self-harm.

You continue to keep your lover a secret. When you're with him, you never know which side of him you might get. Some nights, he just fucks you until he's sated; he pulls out and rolls over, leaving you still aching and hard. But you don't touch yourself, because it makes him angry and you don't want any new bruises. Part of you doesn't care, though; at least you _feel_ something, even if it's pain.

Other times, he's gentle and he holds you and caresses you and tells you everything is okay. You make love together, and the intensity is enough to consume you from the inside out. Those are the moments in which you think you love him.

* * *

Almost a year has gone by. You've taken Ginny out to celebrate her birthday, her graduation, and her new job, because somehow, you missed all three. She is still as lovely as you remembered, and you wonder why it didn't work out before. You recall her saying it was because she needed time—time to mourn, time to finish school, time to grow up. You know she really meant time for you to learn to trust her, but it never happened.

You think now might be a good time to start. "I've been seeing someone," you say.

"Oh?" she replies, a faint smile on her face. The smile runs away when she sees that you're not returning it. "What is it?" she asks gently.

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. You remove the glamour on your wrist. And your neck. And your eye.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't gasp or sigh or cry. She doesn't even ask who did that to you, even though you think she might know. Instead, she places her hand on yours and says, "Look at me." When you raise your eyes, she holds your gaze.

She tells you, "You need to get out." You nod, and she asks, "Do you need help?" You nod again.

She takes out parchment and a quill and scribbles something. A quick glance at the parchment reveals a name and Floo address. You don't ask how she knows about this; you just accept what she's offered.

She stands to go, so you do too. When she reaches the door, she turns around. "Please let me know how you're doing." You promise you will.

When you Apparate back home, you make it no further than just inside the door, where you sink down with your knees drawn up and your head in your hands. You sob the way you haven't done since you were fifteen and watched the first person to love you without condition or agenda die.

You don't leave right away. You threaten, and he says he'll try harder. You want to believe him, but you think maybe you secretly don't. You know it's over. You take out the parchment Ginny's given you and take several long, shaky breaths before you grab the Floo powder from the mantle.

When you contact the person whose name Ginny's given you, it turns out to be a Healer called Pandora Snellgrove. She is a tiny grey-haired witch with small, round spectacles. She carries herself with dignity and has a no-nonsense air about her, yet she is surprisingly warm and compassionate. You think maybe you can trust her.

When you tell her what's happened with your relationship, she doesn't tell you right away that you need to leave him. She doesn't blame you, either for the abuse (and you know that's what it is) or for staying. Instead, she tells you, "It happens. People become involved, and stay involved, for lots of reasons. It isn't your fault. But we need to help you be healthy and strong now."

You think you might be ready for that.

Healer Snellgrove has suggested your friends should be with you when you leave, for your safety. You know that means you'll have to tell them. So you do, and they react exactly as you predicted. It doesn't matter; they've agreed to come. So now you're at his, and you know it's the last time you'll be there. You tell him you're leaving and you're not coming back.

He pretends to be shocked. He tries to convince you to stay. He says he'll leave Astoria—he won't marry her. He says he loves you and you're his whole world. He says he can't live without you.

When you don't answer, he's angry. He tells you you're worthless and he's the only one who will ever want you. He threatens you. He's screaming at you, and he throws something. You're shaking, but you manage to sidestep whatever it is and it smashes uselessly against the wall beside you. You Apparate away, leaving him red-faced and gaping.

You ask Hermione to be your secret-keeper again so you can return your house to being unplottable. You ward your Floo, too, just in case. You shrink down all the clothes he bought you into a single bag, and you owl it to him.

You purge everything that reminds you of him. When you're done, you think you might be starting to feel a little—just a very little—bit better.

You Floo Ginny. You give her the first genuine smile you've been able to muster in months; she can tell, and it makes her smile too. You tell her you need help buying some new clothes but Ron has no better fashion sense than you and surely she knows what Hermione's like. Ginny laughs and says she does.

You meet her in Diagon Alley and you wander the shops together. She chooses things out and you try them on.

You have lunch outdoors, and you fill her in even though she doesn't press for details. She's surprisingly easy to talk to. You tell her that you don't really understand why or how everything happened, but you're working through it with Healer Snellgrove. You finally ask her how she knew who he should contact, and she tells you that she's been their family's Healer for some time now. She doesn't have to explain further.

You find yourself captivated by the warmth and care in her brown eyes, and you're glad you trusted her.

* * *

It takes time, but you're moving on. You see him sometimes, but you don't acknowledge him. You heard he finally got married, but you don't care. He is your past. You know now you don't need him to stay connected to this world.

You and Ginny have grown closer. As you slowly healed, her friendship kept you grounded. Now it's blossomed into a mature version of the youthful infatuation you once shared. She's patient with you, giving you time and space as you need it or remaining close when that's what's called for. The first time you make love with her, it's full of the raw emotions you've kept hidden for so long but are finally ready to let out. She just holds you close and reminds you she loves you.

You think maybe you will ask her to marry you soon. Perhaps you'll do it when you're at the Burrow getting ready for Ron and Hermione's wedding.

It is the first of September, and for the first time, you finally believe everything's going to be all right.


	2. Chapter 2

Please note: This story is _not_ a commentary on same-sex relationships, just on this specific one, and if it wasn't going to end happily for our boys, then I wanted it to be Epilogue-compliant. In no way am I suggesting that men should try to be/pretend they are straight because of abuse, nor am I suggesting bi men would be better off marrying women. That should probably go without saying, but as a gay-rights activist, I felt it was important to note that (since anyone reading this probably doesn't know what I do in my "real" life and might assume things).

This story came about for a couple of reasons. One was a friend's divorce following a violently abusive relationship. The second was that some months ago, the CDC here in the States released a report that bisexual men are among the most at-risk for domestic violence, although there's no clear reason why.

For the countless men and women who are experiencing intimate partner violence—if this is you, please get help. You can start with domestic violence hotlines:

1−800−799−SAFE(7233) (US)

0808 2000 247 (UK)

Men, specifically, can call:

Call 1-888-7HELPLINE (US & Canada)

01823 334244 (UK)

For more information, visit www. helpguide mental/ domestic_violence_abuse_types_signs_causes_effects . htm (without all the spaces, of course).

If you know of others, please leave them in the reviews. Help stop intimate partner violence and provide safety for victims and survivors.


End file.
